"Why can't you do something, Papa? Why can't you help him? Have you no conception of what a hundred and fifty lashes will do to your son?"
"Aye, I know!" Gerren shouted. "And I will do something, Legion! Give me time!"
Gerren had wept that day as his son was dragged away from the courtroom, pulled about like a common criminal, shut out from the world of the living. The knowledge that his child would have to endure untold humiliation at the whipping post had been bad enough, but to have the sentence so harsh, so vile, had been another matter. He could not imagine what it had done to his son. The boy's face had been filled with terror.
And he had done something to help.
He had gone before the people, hinting at Conar's torture, speaking his mind, telling the people his son was innocent and that he held no blame on Conar for what had been done to him during the attack. He sobbed before his people and his grief reached out to the Serenians who called for a reduction of the amount of lashes.
They could all live with Conar's exile. That had been a foregone conclusion with the signing of the confession. But when the Tribunal had called for Conar's blood and pain because of the adultery charges, there was not a single soul that day within the courtyard square who believed such vicious lies about their overlord.
"He might have joined them bastards for the power they could give him, Majesty," one man had yelled, "but it weren't for no such evil as what they accused him!"
"Aye! If the prince be guilty of betraying his princess, it would've been with a pretty woman. That's for sure!" someone else retorted. "Not no man!"
"Ain't a pretty man among that heathen bunch!" one of the Palace guards snarled.
"Ain't a man among that sorry bunch!" another spat.
Now, standing on the balcony, watching his son being strapped to the upright, Gerren felt as though the world as he knew it was coming to an end.
"Gerren, you should not see this," Hern repeated.
"If he has to endure it, I have to watch."
Hern opened his mouth to speak, but the first crack of the executioner's whip sang through the still air. The stalwart Master-at-Arms flinched like a green boy, his head swinging away from his friend to the terrible, unspeakable thing going on below.
A pitiful moan escaped Gerren as that first blow struck his son's back. He made himself stand still; he had to watch every blow that would tear at his son's flesh. He would feel the boy's pain with each flap of the steel-tipped whip. He clung to the railing, never once looking away from the bound figure of the son he loved more than all the others.
A small, evil voice inside his head crooned to him, taunted him, mimicked him. "Did you love him so much when you told him he was dead to you? Did you love him so much when you disinherited him? Made him a commoner so that this very thing could be done to him? Did you love him so much when his child was lost and he needed your support? Where was your great love then, Gerren of Serenia?"
Hern, too, was feeling the guilt of allowing such a fate to befall his young protégé. This boy was like a son to him. He cared deeply for Conar as he had cared deeply, too deeply, for the boy's mother. Standing there, watching Conar being tortured, for that was exactly what it was—torture—was like being a participant in the evil.
The second lash fell. Gerren's knees threatened to buckle. He felt Hern's arms go around him. "Forgive me, my son," he whimpered. "Forgive me."
* * *
When the first whistle of the whip cut through the air, Conar had tensed. He'd shut his eyes tight, pressed his forehead against the wood, and turned his face into the torn sleeve of his shirt, trying to hide from Kaileel's eager look. But he'd had no way to prepare himself for the fiery agony streaking down his back from right shoulder to left hip. His eyes flew wide open and he bit his lips to keep from crying out.
This was worse than he had imagined. Far worse than anything he had ever experienced as a child. Twice as bad as Tolkan's bamboo rods, ten times worse than the leather belt Kaileel had applied so diligently upon his back when he was a boy. Much, much worse than the whipping his father had given him the year before. This was an agony that defied description.
The second lash caught him fully across his lower back and his body jerked against the chains holding him. He thought he had known pain before.
He was wrong.
With the third, fourth, and fifth blows, his flesh was criss-crossed with angry red welts. The sixth and seventh formed an X down the center of his back, and he felt the skin split from shoulder to hip with the eight, ninth and tenth hits. Another two blows sent him crashing into the post despite the restriction of the wide leather belt anchoring his waist to the upright. The stroke curled around his right shoulder and his hands began to dig convulsively into the wood, trying to unhook his manacles from the beam.
The lashes came too fast for him to react, their stinging barbs digging into his tender flesh, leaving long bands of throbbing heat down his left and right sides. He felt his skin rip open as the lash caressed him from hip to hip. It was all he could do to suppress the moans being pushed up his throat. His entire back was on fire and he stopped counting as the blows lapped hungrily at his right side.
Kaileel stared avidly at Conar's sweating face. The young man's blood was flowing freely down his breeches and dripping with silent splatters to the floor of the wooden platform. Each time the proud young body was flung against the post, Kaileel knew a pleasure beyond compare. His face was filled with an unholy gleam of pure evil, and a fine line of sweat lay on his upper lip.
When the thirty-first blow landed and the young man arched back his head, his neck muscles straining, his lips pulled back in a grimace of ungodly agony, Kaileel licked his lips and felt the first stirrings of sexual arousal.
Nothing but red-hot pain was registering. Conar could no longer concentrate on keeping his lips tightly pressed together. He was grunting with every blow. He tried to force his thoughts away from the slicing whip, but with every sting, all conscious effort fled to be replaced by the involuntary jerk of his body as the whip slid down him.
Kaileel saw Conar look at him. But there was no recognition in those glazed pupils. There was nothing but pain. Conar's breathing was shallow, rapid, gasping. Blood dripped down his chin and onto his chest as his teeth ground into the softness of his lips and cheeks. One of the blows caught him low, almost across his buttocks, and he lurched so hard into the beam, snapping his teeth so tightly together, Kaileel heard the click.
Conar began to pray for death. He knew he couldn't endure too much more. It was taking every ounce of his waning strength to keep away the screams. His jaws were aching from the pressure of trying to keep his teeth clenched. When the next blow landed, he whined.
Kaileel heard the whimper and his lips pulled back from his teeth. It wouldn't be long now. Within only a matter of moments, the screaming would begin. There was no way the man could keep himself from letting out the purely animal release such agony required.
Another blow popped from right shoulder to left and Conar's fingers clawed further into the wooden beam. He was only vaguely aware of the long oak slivers embedding themselves under his nails. His fingertips began to ooze blood down his palms and forearms, saturating the tight cuffs of his shirt, running under the clasp of his wrist irons. Each repeated lash hurled his helpless body into the post, bruising, splitting the skin on his forehead and cheeks as he tried to escape the whip's sting. There was no way he could smother a whimper the next time the lash struck.
Along with the strip of flesh that was torn from Conar's body with the blow came a moan loud enough to draw Legion's attention. He turned to see what up until then he had refused to watch.
Legion stared with shock. How could the man retain consciousness? he thought. His brother's back was a wet red hunk of shredded flesh. He looked up to see Conar's fingers digging into the beam, curling with rigid spasms as he tried to pull his wrists free of the manacles, saw the blood flowing freely down those ravaged fingertips, and Legi
on's mouth sagged open with stunned surprise. Why doesn't he pass out? Legion wondered with dismay. Why doesn't he scream?
When the lash curled itself around his right forearm, the barbs ripped through his shirt sleeve to open a long graze on the tender flesh inside his elbow. Conar's mouth opened in a savage pant, like a wounded animal. Blood oozed down his left nostril. Bloody spittle dripped from his torn lips.
Sentian Heil had slowly pushed his way through the now silent crowd. He had been right behind Legion and Thom as they ran from the keep. But the sight of his beloved Conar being dragged like an animal to the whipping post had so terrified Sentian, so stunned him, he had stopped, his body paralyzed with his inability to halt what he knew was coming.
As the blows began, he had started to walk, easing past the set, angry and hurt faces of the people who clung to one another as they watched this barbaric spectacle. He saw women and children crying, men with tears in their eyes, men who were unashamed that others saw their weakness. He watched as one of Conar's women buried her face in the soft bosom of another mistress, both crying openly with wracking sobs that shook their shoulders. He saw men with clenched teeth, young boys with murder on their beardless faces.
And then he saw Brelan Saur.
Brelan had made his way to the platform just as Conar was strapped to the upright. He had pushed past two of his father's palace guards, glaring back at them as they moved to block his way. He had dared them to interfere with his move toward the steps of the platform. Satisfied when the men dropped their gazes, he had eased to the first step and gazed up at the giant man welding the whip. He turned to see Sentian Heil standing beside him.
"Come to enjoy this, Lord Saur?" Sentian hissed.
"Did you?"
Bent Armitage was praying the prince would black out. There were nineteen lashes to go on the original edict.
He would be drawn and quartered before he applied the extra forty blows with which Kaileel had taunted the crowd. His arm was already weary, his huge heart rending inside his massive chest as he drew the whip over his shoulder once more. He stopped with the whip there, panting as though he had run a long race, swallowed and ran his free hand over his sweating face. The underarms of his black tunic were saturated with sweat and his clothing was plastered to his flesh even though the air was cold enough to freeze water. Tears were blocking his vision, had been since the first stroke.
"What are you waiting for?" Tohre shouted, his angry eyes wild, rolling in his red face. "Get on with it! Don't stop!"
A scream was pushing its way out of the very depths of Conar McGregor. The sudden lull in the beating had brought with it the hope that the pain was over. The scream was running up his throat like a ravaging wolf, but he knew he could keep it at bay if the pain had stopped. The burning agony was excruciating, but he had endured it. Had there been seventy-five blows? One hundred? More? He had no idea. He was only grateful the terrible pain had stopped; that it was over.
But it wasn't.
Bent sent the whip forward again to connect with the pulpy mass that had once been a human back. The snap of leather, the meaty thud of steel-tips against the prince's back sounded like a death-knell in the giant's ears.
Conar's body crashed into the beam. It wasn't over, he thought with panic. Sweet Alel, it wasn't over! He desperately tried to hold back the scream. He tried to force his body upward to slide the manacles from the hook, yet still that horrible scream threatened to unman him before his people. He worked his fingertips into the wood, scraping, plowing eight furrows into the grain.
The cords in his neck stood out like separate entities. His lips drew back in a feral snarl, his tongue caught between his teeth. He felt another lash cut deep into his blazing back, he felt his flesh shredding, pulling away from his rib cage in a long, wide strip. He clamped his mouth shut, bit through his tongue, his upper lip sliding over the wood of the upright.
"Pass out," Sentian begged. "For the love of Alel, pass out!"
Another lash descended.
"Pass out, Conar," Brelan prayed.
Still another.
"Let go, little one," Hern mumbled.
And another.
It was all he could stand.
Throwing back his head, Conar filled the air with an unearthly, piercing scream. It echoed around the Tribunal Square, washed over the suddenly still crowd, flooded the souls of every man and woman and child.
Brelan flinched. He wondered how Conar had lasted this long. By his count, the whip had landed sixty-one times. He had been slammed repeatedly into the post with such force it was a wonder he was still conscious. And yet Conar had kept the scream at bay.
As yet another blow reigned down on him, another uncontrollable scream came from the young man's parched throat. Another lash, another scream. Two lashes, two more screams. With each descent of the lash, Conar's howl rent the air. Ten more lashes fell in quick succession and Conar screamed with each blow.
"That was seventy-five!" a voice yelled.
"I counted 'em, too! Bent got him seventy-five times!"
"No more!"
Kaileel skirted the post and shouted at the crowd. "Did you forget the extra forty blows you caused him?" He turned to Bent. "Forty more, Armitage!"
Staring at the lunatic before him, the executioner shook his head. He extended the whip to the High Priest. "I will not be the one to do it!"
The crowd had grown still, straining to hear what the giant said. Tohre now held the blood- and skin-flecked leather whip and the giant stalked off the platform. A cheer went up as the crowd became aware of Bent's refusal.
Brelan stared up at Tohre. Drool ran down the thin, slitted lips and a nameless evil filled his red face. He was looking at the whip in his hand with a strange look of excitement as though he were gazing at a lover. Brelan shivered as Tohre turned to the crowd.
"Who will finish this?"
Tymothy Kullen started forward, but a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. He looked up into the dangerous eyes of Thom Loure.
"Don't even think about it," Loure warned.
"Who?" Kaileel shouted again. His anxious gaze fell on Brelan. "You! Saur! You have no love for this man. Take the whip and finish the forty blows!"
Brelan looked to where his brother hung. "No!"
Tohre spun around, thrust the whip toward Legion.
"No!" came the immediate reply.
Turning once more to the crowd, Kaileel held up the whip. "Is there not one among you who has the courage to give this man his due?"
From somewhere in the back of the crowd it began. It was a faint voice, a woman's voice. It was repeated off to the far left, echoed from the right. Then in the middle. Someone in front took up the sound. Then several voices were speaking in unison. Then a few more. Still more, until the entire crowd began to chant.
Their voices were no longer weak. The volume was growing. The anger was growing. The hatred was growing. Hands began to clap slowly, loudly. Feet began to stomp, pounding the flagstone square and the Temple and Tribunal steps like the hooves of a mighty herd of wild stallions. The chant filled the square, every voice in unison with the slow, prolonged clap as the words rang out clear and strong: "Conar! Conar! Conar!"
Brelan looked around, his the only silent voice among those of his friends and Conar's, among the people loyal to his brother. His arms had been crossed over his chest, but now he put them down.
He glanced up at Legion and saw his brother clapping to the chant's slow rhythm, saw his mouth moving to the words. He looked at Conar's torn body, his brother's head hanging between his blood-streaked arms, a pool of blood beneath his feet. He saw his father standing on the balcony slumped against Hern Arbra, turned back to the platform where Tohre was holding the whip, trying furiously to get someone to finish the job.
A movement on the platform drew his attention and he saw Conar trying desperately to raise his head, watched the head loll to one side.
It was all he could stand.
Slowly,
hesitantly, Brelan Saur clapped once. Twice. Three times in counter-movement to the other clapping.
He saw Legion grimly smile for the first time in more than a week as he met Brelan's gaze. He looked at Sentian, saw understanding. Glanced at Thom, who nodded. He clapped again and then again, joining now in the rhythm where before he had added counterstrike to the clapping. He saw childhood friends staring back at him—Storm Jale, Marsh Edan, Ward Summerall, Lin Dixon, Roy Matheny—and the men smiled. Then his lips formed the word the crowd was saying.
"Conar," he whispered at first. Then louder, then louder still, until his voice was as strong and as passionate as those around him. "Conar!"
"Cowards!" Kaileel shouted, his words drowned out by the crowd. He looked at Conar and a deep, abiding insanity gripped him like the steel talons of a nightmare creature.
Conar was groaning, whimpering softly as he hung loosely from the beam. His mind was swirling in and out of consciousness. He could not hear the crowd's litany. He could not see Legion's tearful face smiling sadly at him. He was rapidly losing his touch with reality. Life had become one long searing pain, torching his flesh, ripping the flesh from him, stripping his body bare, crippling him, tearing him apart.
From out of the depths of his consciousness, a name was forcing its way through his soul. He'd tried to latch onto it before now, but it kept flitting away as his body burned in this hell.
He had even ceased to pray for death because he knew it would soon take him. He could feel it coming, calling to him, waiting. His blood was flowing like water down his legs, his life draining away. Intuitively, he knew his mortal body could not take any more and felt his strength and stamina giving way to a blissful oblivion that called to him with open arms. He closed his eyes and waited for death to claim him.
"You are all cowards!" Kaileel shouted.
Kaileel rushed toward Legion, shoved him as hard as he could, laughing hysterically when Legion plummeted from the platform, knocking over three men in his fall. Before anyone could stop him, the High Priest shot the whip forward with a stinging, retaliatory slap that was twice as strong and twice as terrible as any blow Bent had given. It connected hard with Conar's flesh, dragged down the torn and bleeding mass, tore open his back in a gash that split before the horrified eyes of those watching.
WINDWEEPER Page 22